


Get Busy

by ThePenDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenDragon/pseuds/ThePenDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*The name comes from the line 'Get busy living or get busy dying'. </p>
<p>John's given up, on everything, but still goes through the motions, when he can be bothered.</p>
<p>Sherlock, miles away, gets a text that changes his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock always hated that phrase. "Get busy living, or get busy dying." But now he found that the phrase applied to him in both ways: he was dead to the world, and had to much to do while being so.

Yes, everyone thought he was dead. The papers, the people; Lestrade, Mycroft, John… But not Molly. No, Molly was the only one who knew, the only one who could know. Mostly because he needed her help, but also because he knew he could trust her. It may have seemed to be a moment of sentimentality that he said the words, but he had not been lying when he had told her that she did matter, and always had. 

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed anymore. What did it matter what day it was, or time? He'd fallen into his old habits of not sleeping or eating nearly enough, only when he really could find the time and place. Well, time, truly, since place didn't matter as much to him anymore. His vessel could react well enough as long as he willed it to, getting what needed to be done done. Which was quite a lot, considering the task. 

He stood in front of the dingy hotel mirror, looking at his face that looked even more gaunt and pale in the terrible light that flickered often. He sighed, scrubbing water over his face. He worked his bare amount of a disguise on, for the nth time. He grabbed his phone; he hadn't gotten a text from anyone in a long time, not even John, who had used to send him little things from time to time. It made him a little sad, but the absence was soon easily replaced by the work, the new work that was the sole focus of his mind now. He put on his normal street clothes, so different from his nicer suits and long coat, left back in London. He grabbed his phone and worn wallet, locking the door behind him as he headed out for another day of hunting. He was almost done, but not done, not close enough. 

\----

John stared off into space, sitting in his chair in the flat. He was having one of his ‘thinking days’. He hated those days, because his thoughts always went back to the same place – that damned empty chair across from him. He sighed, thinking of getting some tea, but didn’t want to get up. He glared down at his cane next to him – He’d had to have Mrs. Hudson get it for him a long time ago. He had taken up sleeping on the couch, when he slept. He avoided going out, eating, and even getting up. So he just stayed there, in that chair, feeling the emptiness well up in him. The loneliness, without his friend.

John looked over at his phone, hoping, wishing to anything that it would buzz. No one ever texted or called him anymore, much less visited. Oh, sure, they had at first. Tried at least. John was just so unresponsive, they must have given up tired of it. He knew it was so foolish of him, but he still waited for something, anything. He still waited for that miracle, even if he knew that it wouldn't - it couldn't happen. He also knew Mycroft still watched the flat, just as he had before, but he didn't bother John, usually. And John was fine being alone, for the most part. It gave him more time to remember. 

John remembered clearing out all the experiments. He'd find them weeks later, hidden in placed he hadn't thought to check, sending waves of hurt through him all over again. The fridge seemed so much emptier. Mrs. Hudson had helped him pack up the less perishable things, the scientific things, at least. Most of the other things John left out -the skill, the papers (though he organized them a bit so they didn't look so messy), even his laptop which remained closed. Even if he felt a harpness in his chest when he looked around his flat, it was better than it being emptier. 'His' flat.. it still sounded wrong, even after all this time.

Mycroft helped pay for the rest of the rent, what had been Sherlock's half. Whether it was out of kindness, or pity, or guilt, John didn't care. He didn't talk to Mycroft, didn't forgive him. Coulnd't. He never answered any contact made by the older Holmes, never reached out on his own. He didn't even like to think of the man, and tried to deal with Lestrade as little as possible. Quickly estranging himself from things that reminded him too much of the old life. 

\----

Sherlock didn't think twice anymore about killing. He probably wouldn't have had many qualms about it before, but now he didn't even hesitate. He could pull the trigger, flip the switch, push the plunger, whatever he needed to do. One by one, he was going down the lines. Taking Moriarty's vast web of criminal power apart at the seams. He didn't need to get everyone, only the ones that truly mattered, but even that took so long. 

He looked down at the man. One of the leaders of a recent gang he'd tracked down. The rest would be left up to the local police. He needed to get out, get lost again. Invisible, disappear just like always. He made his way back to his room. It was late into the night, this certain job having taken patience to finish. He sat on the bed, having nothing better to do than look at his phone again. It had been far too quiet as of late. He hand''t gotten anything from John, or even Molly. She had promised to keep an eye on everyone important to him, especially John. But he hadn't gotten an update in a while, not about anybody. He supposed it could be due to that work had been busy, or perhaps she had managed to find someone to start a serious relationship with. He didn't wish her ill, or resent her, whatever the reason, but he still wished he had something, anything. A little bit, just saying that the people he knew were alive, well, and moving on. 

He didn't want them to move on, not really. He didn't want them to forget him, but he didn't want them to mourn forever. Surely they would understand when he came back, as soon as he could, and forgive him. Things could return to normal, he was sure. John and he would go chasing through the streets, on cases for Lestrade and the yard once again. John would make him eat and sleep again, complain about the experiments and body parts around the flat, ignore the long periods of silence or violin playing. He missed the violin, just like he missed nicotine. He couldn't afford cigarettes of nicotine patches on what little he had, and had forced his body to work past it. 

He sat up late that night, laying in the dark, wishing for any contact that didn't end up with the other participant dead or arrested. He looked through the saved drafts of texts he had never sent, most of them to John. Mostly responses, to whatever John would care to tell him about his life right then. He missed John dearly sometimes, but he dealt with it. Buried the /feelings/ deep down, same as always, as he closed his eyes, phone still clutched in his hand as he managed to drift off to sleep, wishing he had a cup of tea again. 

\----

John decided to finally get up. The least he could do was go outside for once, get some sun - it would make dead Mrs. Hudson worry at least a little less, he was sure. He grabbed his phone, placing it in his coat pocket. He took his wretched cane in hand and started to head out of the flat, but got dizzy and stumbled, causing him to plummet down the stairs to the bottom landing. When he reoriented himself some, his head foggy, he vaguely registered paint throughout his body. He thought that he'd be fine, that Mycroft would know and send help. He took his phone out all the same, texting a single word to the number at the top of his messages list: help. H pressed send, hearing mrs. Hudson calling his name from far away, but his eyes drifted closed, and everything went black.

\----

Sherlock woke up to his phone screen light and a familiar sound that he hadn't heard for so long. He pried his tired eyes open against their will, and pulled the lock screen away to view the message. He had to read it three times to realize that it was real, this wasn't a dream, and he sat up quickly.

'help -JW'


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock forwarded the message to Molly and dropped his phone of his bed, quickly changing. He didn't bother washing up, he just worked to get his things together and get out. He paid for the nights he'd stayed, with a quick message that he wouldn't be needing the room after that night. He easily reactivated the GPS tracker in his phone, which he had disabled to avoid Mycroft. He knew his brother would surely already be helping John, whatever the problem, but he needed the others help as well now.

'Flight back to London, now. -SH'

'Your flight leaves in half an hour. -MH'

That was it, with the flight and ticket information. Nothing else. No questions, no accusations; he wondered if Mycroft was surprised at all, if the older had suspected the truth after all. But that didn't really matter to Sherlock right then. All that mattered was the tight knot of worry in his chest. He didn't know what had happened, couldn't know, and worst of all, had no way to help John. 

John, the very reason he had left London, to protect the person he felt the closest to. What was it all for, what was the point if he had been hurt anyway? Of course Sherlock knew his work wasn't for nothing; he had just about finished off the 'empire' Moriarty had built. He wash't worried about leaving the work. It wasn't an issue, wasn't a danger anymore. He could be finished now. He also wasn't focused on that, either, of course. He could deal with that decision later, once he knew John was save.

God, he really wanted John to be okay.

\----

The flight finally landed, and he could check his phone again. As soon as they allowed electronic devices again, he was checking his messages. Molly had gotten back to him, reporting the basics.

'John's Alive. -Molly'

Sherlock felt his shoulders relax a great deal at that, not having noticed the tension there before. She also sent what room John was in. He wanted more information, but it didn't matter. Unsurprisingly there was a driver waiting for him to take him to the hospital. He was quite on the trip, his phone held tight in his hand. He sent a text to Molly asking how Jon was just as the car pulled outside the hospital. He needed to prepare himself, he knew that, for many reasons, but he didn't know what to expect.

'He's alive. That's all that matters. -Molly.'

And maybe that's all that did. He hoped so. And he hoped John felt the same way.

\----

People trickled in and out of John's room at the hospital. He was asleep, partially because his body had shut down to finally get some rest and also because he was on a steady drip of sedative through an IV, one of the many things they were wiring into his system. Everyone was really just waiting for Sherlock to be the heroic knight in shining armor, showing up to save the sleeping princess. Or something like that.

Doctors checked on John regularly, worrying over his condition. The fall wasn't the only thing wrong with him, and by far not the worst damage they were working to fix up. Molly worried as well, biting her nails - a habit she had developed, mostly when she was thinking about Sherlock. She's watched John deteriorate into this, but she wondered if Sherlock could handle coming back to this John, the one he remembered from so long ago was very different now. Whatever was going to happen at this reunion, she didn't see how it could be good for either of them. But she stayed silent, watching John stay alive, just like old times, just for Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Sherlock did was, surprising, not to visit John. It was both a decision to avoid the inevitable as to take care of another meeting that was far overdue. 

He had the cab drop him off at the corner, using the short time it took his long legs to travel the sidewalk to steel himself. He had long since hid the key to the door he stood before, after all this time, and even though he could have easily found it - it wasn't like he forgot where he hid possibly the most important piece of shaped metal he'd owned - he raised a hand and knocked. 

\----

John woke up to an empty room. This wasn't unusual for him; of course it wasn't, it had been years since he should have expected anything but silence and the noise of the city.

He was exhausted, in all of the worst of ways, and looked around slowly. The memories of the day, it had been so short ago, before found their way back to his consciousness, and he sighed. He wasn't surprised, nor should he have been, he knew. It had all been leading up to this, or at least something like it. He did note, with a hint of interest, that he had survived a fall when Sherlock couldn't. He frowned to the ceiling at the tasteless joke his brain had supplied.

By the time the doctors came round to check on him again, John's eyes had closed and his breathing evened, asleep once more. No one knew he had woken up just long enough to feel empty again, alone, before his vessel demanded more rest from him.

\----

After a visit with dear Mrs. Hudson that seemed both quick and lengthy, Sherlock was less than surprised to find Mycroft sitting in the front room. In his old chair, as it was; Sherlock immediately noticed so many things about the old home that his mind reeled back from the onslaught. He forced himself to focus on his brother. 

For a long time, they just stared. But there was so much in each of their eyes, perhaps words were not needed. The brothers, the arch-enemies, reunited after too long. Not a trick, or a game; unknowingly helping the other advance in the shared goal that each thought was their own burden. 

"He needs you." Mycroft spoke first, softly, yet seemingly so loud in the quiet room. Sherlock waited a heartbeat, nodded, and simply turned away. He knew he still looked nothing like himself, but he couldn't be bothered to stop and clean himself up. There was a much more important mission now, one that he had hoped he would never have to take on.

\----

And then, before he knew it, before he was ready, there he was. There they both were; the consulting detective and the blogger. And unfamiliar scene, even to them, and Sherlock already knew who the instigator of this crime was.

He walked forward slowly, his legs moving as slow as his brain, as he tried both to comprehend and unsee the very sight before him. But he couldn't stop his brain from kicking back on, and taking assessment of his old friend. 

Broken leg, possible concussion but very obviously lacking sleep and proper nutrition. John, his dear John. He looked so much older, so much more worn, though Sherlock could also see that any form of sun had not seen his skin in far too long. 

Sherlock was by his bedside before he truly noticed, staring down at John from this distance made his heart both ease and constrict more. John was alive, but he was so, so broken. He eventually got his own control back and got a chair, sitting down next to John's bed and watching the man breathe for a while. After a time he didn't recognize had passed, he began to talk, and told John everything. Told John what he would probably never tell another, and never tell him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter took so long.. Inspiration is a fickle friend of mine.


End file.
